


Alight Here

by saltedwater



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltedwater/pseuds/saltedwater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Harry's band is on the verge of breaking up. Meanwhile, he meets Louis on the London Underground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alight Here

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted at livejournal [here](http://saltedwater.livejournal.com/805.html).

Harry’s on the Jubilee line, the last train toward Stanmore, and with the way things are going it’ll be at least fifty minutes before he makes it from Canary Warf to Baker Street. It’s been one delay after another today, mechanical error, signal error, dust on the fucking tracks, and he’s tired and he’s pissed and he’d shown up to the gig only to be told that oh, sorry, they’d double booked the bands by mistake. Run along now, boys. 

The doors open at London Bridge, a few stops down the line, the bored female voice telling passengers to mind the gap. Harry’s the only one in the car, except for a man on the other end, sleeping with a Sainsbury’s bag not quite concealing the mostly-empty bottle of wine on his lap. Nobody gets on or off, and the voice reminds Harry and the sleeping man that they are on the Jubilee line to Stanmore before they’re moving again. 

When the tube stops at Southwark, one more passenger joins them. He makes his way over to where Harry is and points at the empty bench beside him. “Mind if I sit here?” he asks. Harry shrugs; the boy’s already flopping down into the seat, putting his bag up on the other side and sprawling so one canvas shoe-clad foot knocks against Harry’s ankle. Harry glances at him, but his new travelling companion doesn’t apologize, busy messing with the zip of his jacket. 

He’s a few years older than Harry, Harry guesses, and he has hair that looks almost as deliberately windswept as Harry’s own. When he glances up again, he meets Harry’s gaze, quirks a smile that makes Harry feel slightly off-balance, although it could just be the train pulling into the station with a lurch. The drunk gets off here, at Waterloo, staggering past them on his way out the door. 

“Alright?” the stranger asks. Harry nods, which the stranger apparently takes as his cue to try to strike up a conversation. “What brings you out this time of night?” he asks, chuckling a little. It’s only just before one, and it’s a Saturday. 

“Work,” Harry mumbles. He’s not about to say anything about his cancelled gig to this stranger; all he wants to do is go home and try to ignore the fact that this was supposed to be the first proper gig he and his mates had booked in two months, that this probably means the end of the band. But the stranger’s still looking at him, so for lack of telling him anymore about himself, Harry asks, “You?” 

“I was at the Tate,” is the response. He sounds slightly cagey about it and Harry’s pretty sure that the museum isn’t open this late anyway, but he doesn’t push. The stranger is apparently satisfied by Harry’s small talk because they sit quietly through Westminster, St. James’s Park, and Green Park, but just as the train is leaving Bond Street he speaks again. “So where’s home, then?” 

Harry’s picking at a tear in the knee of his trousers; he’s mostly stopped paying attention to the boy next to him, except for an occasional glance up because, well, the stranger is rather good looking, but now he meets his eyes again. “Near Edgware Road,” he says.

The stranger nods. “You’re getting off at Baker Street?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for Harry to answer before he says, “I’m in Kilburn.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, “I’ve got a friend in Kilburn.” A band mate, he doesn’t say. Soon to be former, most likely. Niall wants this, the music, as much as he does, but the others have been getting restless, talking about taking a break if there are no more gigs on the horizon. “He lives right off the high street.” Niall’d gone home right after they got the news about the gig, while Harry had wandered around Canary Warf for a while, as though the bartender might come after him, tell him there was room for his band after all.

“Don’t we all live right off the high street?” the stranger says, and there’s the twist of a smile again. “I’ve got a flat near the Tricycle. This is yours.” 

“What?” Harry asks. 

“Your station,” the boy says. Harry hadn’t even noticed, but the train is pulling up to Baker Street; he can see Sherlock Holmes’s silhouetted profile on the wall tiles. 

“Right,” he says. “Well, bye, then.” 

“Cheers, mate,” the stranger says. Then, “Louis, by the way.” 

“Harry,” Harry has time to say before he hears the beep that signifies the doors closing and he has to dash for the platform. 

“Cheers, Harry,” he hears Louis say as he steps off the train. Harry walks up the stairs from the platform, swipes his Oyster card across the reader, and steps out of the tube station into the chilly night. It’s raining, not heavily but a light mist that clings to his jacket in small, beaded droplets and dampens his hair. 

+

He’s lost some of the angry hopelessness that had settled in his stomach earlier that night, when the pub owner had informed him that there was no room in the set for his group and left him to tell the rest of the band when they arrived. When he gets back to the flat Liam’s got a can of vegetable soup and a cheese toastie on the stove, and that helps quite a bit as well. Harry’s sat at the table in their cramped kitchen, telling Liam about the cancelled gig, when Zayn comes in and slides into one of the other chairs. 

“What’ve I missed?” Zayn asks. He rubs his thumb over a mark on the table and glances from Liam to Harry and back again.

“Harry’s gig was cancelled,” Liam reports. 

“Oh yeah,” Zayn says, still trying to smudge away the mark on the table with his fingers, “Niall texted. Sorry, mate,” he says, looking over at Harry. “Bad luck.” Harry nods and refocuses his attention on his food. Zayn’s mobile rings. “Hello?” Zayn says when he answers it. A pause, then, “Yeah, babe, he’s right here.” He passes the mobile in Harry’s direction and Harry takes it, holds the phone to his ear. 

“Hello?” Harry asks. 

“Excellent,” the voice on the other end of the line says. “Zayn told me a while back he had a flatmate called Harry. Thought I’d test my luck.” 

“You know Zayn?” Harry asks. He wouldn’t have recognized the voice except that he’d heard it such a short time before.

“Small world,” Louis replies. “Anyway, that’s all. See you around, Harry.” He hangs up before Harry can respond. Harry pulls the phone away from his ear and looks down at it, then up at Liam and Zayn across the table. 

“Who was that, Hazza?” Liam asks curiously. 

“Louis Tomlinson,” Zayn answers for Harry, and Harry files Louis’s surname away in the back of his mind. “Didn’t know you knew him, Harry.” 

“I just met him on the tube tonight,” Harry is saying when Zayn’s mobile rings in his hand. He answers it without thinking and hears Louis’s voice again.

“Okay, actually, scratch that,” Louis says, no greeting. “That’s not everything. I’m going to Camden Market tomorrow morning. Come.” 

Harry doesn’t know a thing about him except that his name is Louis Tomlinson and he knows Zayn—everyone knows Zayn—and he’s got a flat in Kilburn; doesn’t know if he likes music, if he likes men, but this seems like as good a way as any to find out more (apart from grilling Zayn, which he fully intends to do as soon as he hangs up). “Alright,” he agrees. 

“Brilliant,” Louis says. Harry can’t tell for sure, but it sounds like he’s smiling. “Now that’s everything. 10 a.m. Meet you at Baker Street.” He hangs up again. Harry hands the mobile back to Zayn before Louis can change his mind and call for a third time. 

“Something you’d like to share, mate?” Zayn asks. He takes the phone and shoves it down into the pocket of his jacket, coming up with a pack of cigarettes. He shakes one out of the pack and sticks it between his lips, looking at Harry expectantly.

“Don’t you smoke that in here, Zayn Malik,” Liam says, reaching into Zayn’s other pocket and taking away his lighter. 

“We’re going to Camden Market tomorrow,” Harry says.

“Cool,” Zayn replies. He hits Liam in the side with his palm and takes back his lighter. “You wanna go, Li?” Harry rolls his eyes and pulls out his own mobile, texts Niall that they’re going to Camden Market the next morning if he wants to come. 

“Zayn, go out _side_ with that,” Liam says to Zayn, who has just lit his cigarette. Zayn grumbles and leaves the kitchen, and a moment later Harry hears the door to the flat open and close, and then Zayn’s footsteps on the stairs. Harry focuses on his food again as Liam gets up from the table. “Sorry about your gig,” he says, putting a hand on his shoulder gently for a moment before leaving the room as well. Harry notices Liam doesn’t say anything reassuring about getting another one soon, but he’s done worrying about it for the night. He props his elbows on the table, texts back and forth with Niall a little, finishes his dinner, and thinks about his plans for the next day with Louis. 

\+ 

Louis is waiting for them at the Baker Street tube station in the morning. Harry spots him first because he’s the one looking, Liam busy putting his Oyster back in his wallet and Zayn messing around with his mobile. Louis is leaned up against a pole, arms crossed over his jumper and a cardboard cup dangling from one hand. He shifts himself off the column as Harry and his flatmates approach; if he’s surprised to see Liam and Zayn he doesn’t show it, simply introducing himself to Liam and saying hello to Zayn before he turns to Harry. 

“We meet again,” Louis says, grinning. Harry smiles back and then Louis says, “You know, your fringe is doing something; I don’t…” he trails off and Harry has just enough time to feel hurt by Louis’s assessment of him before Louis is reaching out, smoothing down the hair on Harry’s forehead with his fingertips. “Better,” he says, stepping back. He keeps looking at Harry, so Harry takes the opportunity to check Louis out as well.

“Come on, you two,” Liam says, stepping between them. “There’s Niall.” He points toward the train that has just pulled up, and Harry sees that Niall has stepped out onto the platform and is looking around for them. Harry catches his eye and waves him back onto the train, and the four of them follow him into the car. 

On the tube, Zayn and Louis start up a conversation about some mutual friend of theirs, Liam leans against Zayn, looking as though he isn’t quite awake, and Niall quietly commiserates with Harry about their failed gig the night before. Harry keeps looking over at Louis, and most times Louis is looking back at him. Once, Louis meets his eyes and, slowly and deliberately, winks. Harry winks back, and Louis’s eyes brighten as he smirks. 

They change at King’s Cross, taking the escalator to reach the Northern line, and then they head toward Hampstead until they get off at Camden Town. The street is crowded when they come up from the station, and Harry reaches out to grab Niall by the arm so as not to lose him. He’d like to grab Louis by the arm as well, but he settles for sticking close by as they push through the crowds of people and make their way up the street to the market. 

When they reach the first stalls of the market, Zayn turns back to Harry. “Text when you’re stopping for lunch, yeah?” he says, putting one arm around Liam’s shoulders and using the other to pull Niall out of Harry’s grasp, then leading them both down one of the aisles of shops without another word. Harry is pleased by Zayn’s actions, and even more pleased Louis makes no move to follow Zayn, Liam, and Niall. 

“Come on,” Louis says instead, and they turn up one of the other lanes, walking past shops stuffed with clothing, jewellery, and various types of drug paraphernalia. The market is as crowded as the street leading up to it, and Harry finds himself pressed up against Louis’s side. “Where’re you from?” Louis asks, glancing over a pile of scarves, a rack of t-shirts. 

“Grew up in Cheshire,” Harry tells him.

“How’d you find your way to London?” Louis asks. He picks up one of the scarves and turns, drapes it around Harry’s neck. 

“How did you?” Harry replies. “Where are you from, Sheffield?” 

“Doncaster,” Louis tells him. “And I asked you first, Harry.” 

“Um, I wanted to make music,” Harry admits, feeling slightly embarrassed. Louis is probably studying mathematics at university or working at the Bank of England or something else entirely respectable. Still, he goes on, “I’m in a band. Niall’s in too.”

“Are you any good?” Louis asks. 

Harry shrugs. “I think we’re breaking up.” 

“Go solo,” Louis says. 

“Right,” Harry says, “I’ll become a pop star.” 

“Perfect. I’ll manage you,” Louis tells him, grinning cheekily. “Twenty-five percent of all future royalties.” 

“Fifteen,” Harry argues. 

“Deal,” Louis says. He grabs Harry, hands on either side of his face, and looks intently into Harry’s eyes for a moment before saying, “Yer gonna be famous.” He laughs and lets go, but Harry can still feel where Louis’s fingers had touched his skin. 

+

They’ve stopped for drinks, a coffee for Harry and tea for Louis, two steaming cups resting on the picnic table in front of them as they sit side-by-side on the bench, when Harry asks Louis why he had come to London. Louis thinks about it long enough that Harry wonders for a moment if it’s a question he shouldn’t have asked. 

Then Louis shrugs, leans a little so his shoulder knocks against Harry’s, and says, “I’m still working on it.” He tells Harry that he has a job at Waterstones and that he’s done a little bit of local theatre, and then his mobile buzzes. “Sorry,” Louis says, getting up from the table and pulling the phone out of his pocket. “It’s probably my mum.” He walks a few steps away and answers, and while Harry’s waiting for him to come back he spots Zayn, Liam, and Niall down the street, heading in his and Louis’s direction. Niall sees him a second later and nudges Liam. They reach the picnic table where Harry is sitting just as Louis comes back, tucking his mobile back in his pocket. 

“Was that your mum?” Zayn asks. Then to Harry, “Guess what she calls him?” 

“Shut it, Malik,” Louis says. He sits back down, slinging an arm casually around Harry’s shoulders and picking up his tea. “Did we all have a good morning?” Niall starts talking about running into someone he went to primary school with, and Louis doesn’t move his arm. 

After a few minutes, Harry leans back against him, turns his head. His mouth is close to Louis’s ear, and Louis must be able to feel his breath because he tenses slightly. Harry notices the effect, and Liam kicks him under the table, which probably means that he does too. “Lunch?” Harry asks, directed at Louis but loud enough for the others to hear. They get up from the table and head toward the booths of food vendors. Louis’s arm slips from Harry’s shoulders but ends up around his waist, so Harry puts his arm around Louis’s shoulders. Niall catches his eye and gives him a discreet thumbs-up, which makes Harry laugh. That makes Louis look toward Niall, who gets his hands down just in time. 

“Harry says we’re neighbours,” Louis says to Niall. “You live in Kilburn?”

“On Fordwych,” Niall says. “The far end.” They reach the food booths and Niall is deterred from further conversation trying to decide what to eat for lunch. When they’ve all gotten their food—Niall ends up with a curry, as do Louis and Liam, while Zayn and Harry buy portions of cottage pie at the next stall over—the five of them find another table and sit, Harry and Louis on one side and the others facing them. Louis moves his arm from Harry’s waist to eat, but Harry keeps his around Louis, and they’re sitting close enough to each other at the small table that their legs are pressed together, a line from hip to knee. Zayn keeps looking back and forth between them, but he doesn’t comment. 

After lunch, Louis tells them that he has to work that afternoon. He pulls out of Harry’s grasp and stands up. “Nice to meet you, lads,” he says to Liam and Niall. “Later, Zayn.” Then he looks down at Harry. “I’ll, er—“

“I can take the tube back with you,” Harry volunteers quickly. He starts to stand up but Louis puts a hand on his shoulder to push him back down. 

“It’s fine,” Louis says. “Really, it’s… I’m going all the way down to Trafalgar. I’ll see you soon, Harry.” His hand is still on Harry’s shoulder and he squeezes it lightly before he turns away from the table and starts walking in the direction of the tube station. Harry twists in his seat to watch him go and then turns back to the other three. Zayn raises an eyebrow and Liam smiles. Niall gives him a thumbs up again.

\+ 

Harry realizes two days later, on Tuesday morning, that he never gave Louis his mobile number, which could explain why Louis hasn’t called. Then again, if Louis wanted his number he could have gotten it from Zayn. Realizing this also makes Harry realize that the opposite is true; he could also get Louis’s number from Zayn. However, when he asks Zayn for it, Zayn shrugs and doesn’t take out his mobile. 

“I’d wait a few, mate,” Zayn tells him. Now he does pull out the phone, to show Harry a text that reads, ‘ _Zayn, give me H’s #_.’ “Always the polite one, that Louis Tomlinson,” Zayn says. “Anyway, he’s got yours; he’ll call. But he’s a bit, you know, new.” 

“At using a telephone?” Harry asks. 

“At going for blokes?” Zayn says, like it’s a question and like Harry’s being an idiot. Then, “Fuck’s sake, Harry, I’m ending this conversation before you start oversharing about your sex life. Talk to your mum about it.”

“I’m not going to talk to my mum about my sex life,” Harry says, even if, honestly, it wouldn’t be the first time.

“ _I’d_ like to talk to your mum about _my_ sex life,” Zayn says. Harry hits him in the shoulder, which leads to the two of them pummelling each other until Liam comes into the room and breaks them up.

+

Louis calls on Wednesday night. “Harry,” he says, and Harry can barely hear him over the noise of wherever he is. “How fast can you get to Brixton?” 

“Are you in Brixton?” Harry asks. “Why are you in Brixton?” 

“Got a mate in Lambeth, Sean, we’re at a pub,” Louis says, and Harry has a minute to wonder if Sean the mate in Lambeth is the reason he hasn’t heard from Louis, remembers that he met Louis not far from there, before Louis is going on, “His mate’s the barman here and their live music just cancelled, guitarist’s got appendicitis.” 

“Bad luck,” Harry says. He has an idea where Louis is going with this, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. Not until Louis says it outright. 

“Listen, you better not’ve been lying to me about being good, Harry,” Louis says, a hint of a smile in his voice, “Man’s desperate, needs someone to fill in.” Harry would be busy trying to imagine Louis’s words out of context were it not for the importance of said context. “Gig starts in two hours. He won’t pay you much, ten quid a piece, he says, since he’s never heard you, but he says to tell you he’s got sound stuff and the other band said you can use their drums ‘cos they’re already here and _yer pints’r on tha ‘ous,_ ” he finishes, affecting a strong accent that Harry assumes is an exaggerated version of the bartender’s. 

Harry doesn’t even have to think about it. Ten quid and drinks? He’d do it for free. Of course, he realizes that the rest of the band might not feel the same way, so he says, “I’ll ring you back in fifteen minutes, yeah?” For once, he’s the one who hangs up before Louis can say anything, but he knows that the others might take some convincing. The first person he calls is Niall, who agrees immediately, of course, and says he’ll check in with their drummer, which leaves Harry to convince the bassist. James is a nice enough lad, but he’s been the one most itching to quit, particularly with their recent (or, more accurately, eternal) dry spell between gigs. Eventually, Harry offers James his own ten quid, and then Niall’s as well, and James agrees that he can probably make it to Brixton in time. 

Harry’s frantically gathering anything he thinks he might need at the pub—never mind the fact that for their last would-have-been gig he brought nothing but his wallet and his mobile—when Liam knocks on his door. It’s not shut all the way and Harry looks up when it opens. 

“Harry?” Liam asks. “Zayn and I are going down the street to watch the football. Do you want to come?” 

“No!” Harry says. It’s nearly a shout, and it startles Liam, who takes a step backwards. “Sorry, Liam. I’ve got—Louis got us a gig. Me. The band. In Brixton.” Liam doesn’t say anything; he just leaves the room and Harry can hear him down the hall telling Zayn that there’s sure to be a pub showing the match near Harry’s gig; they can duck out to keep an eye on the score. “You don’t have to come,” Harry tells them when Liam returns to his doorway with Zayn in tow. Zayn just shrugs and gives him a look that says he thinks Harry’s being stupid when Liam says that of course they’ll come. 

\+ 

They meet up with Niall and the drummer, Peter, at Baker Street, and James joins them on the train at Victoria. By the time they reach Brixton some fifteen minutes later, Harry’s on edge, jittery, bouncing in his seat, and Liam and Niall each put a hand on his knee to keep him still. He realizes when he steps off the train that he doesn’t know the name of the pub they’re to be heading to; he’ll have to call Louis when they get aboveground. Before he has the chance, Louis comes hurrying down the stairs and grabs Harry, fingers tight around his wrist. 

“Just in time,” Louis says. He pulls Harry through the turnstile, the rest of the boys close behind them. “Barman’s going mad waiting.” 

The bar is just a few blocks from the tube station, and Louis leads the band around to a back entrance while Liam stays out front with Zayn and Zayn’s smoking habit. The bartender comes back as they’re messing with microphones and tuning guitars. He looks them over and then calls Louis to him. They chat for a minute and then the man goes back to his bar and Louis walks over to the band.

“He says he wants at least an hour of music, not too much talk, not more than three original songs,” Louis reports.

“Why’s he telling _you_ all this?” Peter asks. 

“I’m your manager,” Louis says. Peter looks like he’s about to say something to that, but Harry hands him a microphone and asks him to test it to change the subject. 

When the time comes for them to take the stage, which is really just a table-free area at one side of the pub, Harry turns to the rest of the band. He wants to say something inspiring, something that’ll keep the band together regardless of how the gig turns out, but he doesn’t think there are words that will do that and if there are, he doesn’t have them. Niall catches his eye and nods, but James and Peter simply look past him, toward the crowded pub, as they prepare to play. 

All and all, they pull it off about as well as can be expected for a band playing a gig on less than two hours’ notice. Despite the barman’s allowance that they can play three original songs, they only do one, and slide it in between a couple of crowd pleasing favourites, to keep the pub patrons from getting too fidgety. At the end of it, there’s some applause, most of it from Liam and Zayn, so Harry considers the gig a success. 

Niall goes over to the bar while the rest of them pack up microphones and instrument cases, and returns with a pint of ale and four ten pound notes. He hands three of them to James and one to Peter, who looks at the money in James’s hand as though he is wishing he had tried to strike a deal. James stuffs the notes into his jacket pocket and picks up his guitar case, although he’s usually the first one at the bar for drinks after anything they do.

“Good show, lads,” he says, and even as he does he’s turning toward the door. “See you around, then.” Harry nods, but doesn’t try to stop James as he heads out. Peter stays around for a minute longer, just to make plans to meet up with Niall later in the week, and then he’s hot on James’s heels. 

Harry looks to Niall, who shrugs and takes a sip of his pint. Then he looks over at the bar. Louis is leaned up against it, watching him. By the time Harry walks over to him, the bartender is filling two pints, and when he puts them down on the counter Louis pushes one over to Harry. 

“I told him to put it on your tab,” Louis says, laughing, when Harry picks up the drink. “Thirty percent, remember.”

“Thirty?” Harry said. “Thought we agreed on ten. Anyway, um, I don’t think there’s actually a band left for you to manage.” A few days ago the thought would have devastated him, desperate as he was to keep the band together at any cost, certain that all they needed was one good gig to make the others see how important it was. Now, though, judging by the way James had hightailed it out of the pub and his reluctance to be there in the first place, it doesn’t seem as though the band had much in its future, but Harry figures it’ll work out. Maybe he’ll finally be able to convince Liam and Zayn to start a group with him and Niall. Maybe Louis’ll be a part of it somehow. He's optimistic. 

+

In the meantime, he turns and drops both hands to the bar, setting down his pint and catching Louis in the circle of his arms. Louis pushes back into the bar and looks up; his eyes are bright and Harry leans in and kisses him. The bar is loud around them but Harry narrows his focus to the faint beer taste of Louis’s mouth, the hand that Louis is working into Harry’s curls, the press of Louis’s hips against his as Harry pushes him up against the bar. 

“Oi,” someone yells, and hits them both in the shoulder. Harry pulls away reluctantly, feels Louis’s fingers sliding against the back of his head, brushing against his neck. “Plenty of dark corners for that, lads,” a tall, blond boy says to them, “but some of us would like to get a drink.” Louis flips him off with the hand that isn’t still in Harry’s hair, so Harry assumes it’s his friend Sean. Then Louis is turning away from probably-Sean and leaning up to kiss Harry again, so Harry decides he isn’t bothered who’s telling them off. 

They eventually make their way over to where Liam and Zayn have been sitting, their booth littered with empty pint glasses. Niall’s with them, and he drags Liam out of the booth and directs him to slide in next to Zayn so there’s room for Louis and Harry to sit side-by-side. As Liam changes seats, he nudges Harry in the ribs and catches his eye long enough to wink. Harry laughs and as he sits down in the booth he throws an arm around Louis, pulling him in to brush his lips against Louis’s hairline. Louis leans into him and lets his back rest against Harry’s side as they turn to face the other boys. 

“Good show, yeah?” Niall says. He raises his glass and taps it against Harry’s, a quick toast. Liam nods vigorously in agreement, his mouth full of chips. Harry steals two of the remaining chips off his plate and offers one to Louis. 

“I liked that one you did,” Louis says, then hums a few seconds of it. Harry recognizes the song Louis is talking about and tightens the arm around his shoulders. 

“Harry wrote that,” Niall says. His mouth is full of Liam’s chips. 

“It’s good,” Louis says. His hair rubs against Harry’s neck when he looks up. “Have you got more?” 

“Loads,” Zayn says, as Harry nods. 

“I’d like to hear them,” Louis says seriously. Then, with a laugh, he says in a pompous tone, “As your manager, I ought to know the talent I’m to manage.” Harry chuckles too, but doesn’t say anything, just steals another chip and enjoys the feel of Louis sat up against him. 

When they’ve finished their pints (and the rest of Liam’s chips), Louis says that he has a shift at work early the next morning. The others clearly aren’t ready to leave and Harry’s still feeling energized from the relative success of the gig, but he doesn’t hesitate in following Louis. 

Outside of the pub, Louis leans back into Harry, slides his hand up under Harry’s jacket, tucks his body under Harry’s arm again. They separate only to go through the turnstile, and there is no space between them in the nearly empty car. 

They change at Oxford Circus, onto the Bakerloo line. 

“Listen,” Louis says, as they near Harry’s stop. “Do you—d’you want to…”

“Yes,” Harry says. 

The doors open at Baker Street; nobody leaves the train.


End file.
